


Safe Right Where I Am

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Invasion, Avengers Tower, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Necro-slime, Serious Injuries, Spideypool - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After yet another alien invasion of New York City, Spider-Man realizes he’s badly wounded. Is nowhere and nothing safe? Enter everyone’s favorite, fast-talking, taco-chomping merc. Backstory happens, as do revelations. Also? Necro-slime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Right Where I Am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeldafire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldafire/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers, I guess? For, like, Deadpool and Spider-Man? Oh, and maybe for Avengers: Age of Ultron? Many thanks to Zeldafire, whose fic, “Foolish Behavior" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5364254), inspired me to try my hand at not only a Marvel fic, but a Spideypool fic.

I mean—why _Earth_?

 

Of all the planets in the _universe_ , let alone the galaxy—and considering that these creatures often have ships with near-to- or faster-than-light drives, and could go absolutely _anywhere_ in a relatively reasonable amount of time—why go to some backward little blue marble on an unimportant arm of the Milky Way galactic spiral? Even to conquer or destroy it? Huh? _Huh_?

 

Why. Freaking. _Earth_? Why can’t I ever be _safe_ where I am—and by extension, the people I care about? The innocent and the helpless? Why is the universe such a _hostile_ place to the vulnerable?

 

And just— _why Earth_?

 

I asked myself that question when the Chitauri invaded the first time. Never got an answer, really, even after I started working—occasionally, and _not_ formally—with the freaking _Avengers_.

 

Also asked and never got an answer for the Sli’ivok invasion.

 

Or the Abish-Mal.

 

Or the Fandee (hands down the bloodiest and simultaneously _cutest_ alien invasion Earth has ever, to my knowledge, had. They were like psychotic, genetically enhanced, technologically-advanced Ewoks).

 

And now, I ask it again, as I swing my way out of Central Park—at least this time, the fight hadn’t landed in Midtown—and towards my crappy Jackson Heights apartment. The wound in my side had been inflicted with some sort of fast-acting necro-slime that one of the Caryoun had . . . let’s just say _spit_ at me. It had eaten through my suit and my skin, and is currently working its painful, insidious way through muscle even as I swing from tree to tree and, finally, building to building.

 

 _Why_ _Earth?_

 

Though I wonder only very distractedly. I mean, I just got done fighting off _yet_ _another_ alien scourge, bent on world domination or annihilation—who even keeps track which, anymore?—getting the equivalent of a bucket of acid splashed on me. Every cell in my body seems to ache, to the point that focusing on where I’m going is a crapshoot. The world is beginning to blur and grey out, even as it starts to spin a lot faster than I’m used to.

 

“Christmas on a _cracker_ ,” I hiss, swinging toward a likely-looking rooftop in Midtown, otherwise known to most New Yorkers as That Place Where There Are No Convenient Subway Stops (not that it matters for _Spider-Man_ , because I can’t be seen taking the 7-Train out to Queens for obvious reasons). When I land, it’s more of a crash, than anything else, and it jars me—jars the burns the Caryoun necro-slime caused—and makes me chuff out a pained breath as I skid across the filthy, cigarette butt-littered, bird-poop spattered roof on my stomach. “ _Unf_!”

 

I feel awful. Like . . . legit _wrecked_.

 

But it’s not until some time later, after waking up from a brief black-out, that I realize how bad off I am. I somehow manage to convince my less than cooperative body to roll onto my side, at least—the good one—and I open eyes that almost refuse to work right. Everything’s more blurry, grey, and spin-y than ever, but I can see enough to grok that the left side of my suit is practically nonexistent, as is my skin. I’m laid open, like a bad science experiment, from armpit to mid-thigh, skin eaten away and most definitely _not_ regenerating like it should. I can see muscle, also being devoured by virulent, indigo necro-slime.

 

It’s when I _really_ get a look at the damage that’s been done that I feel the agony in full. It burns so hot it feels as if the surface of the sun licked right up my left side, like a kid would lick a popsicle.

 

“Fuck,” I pant, though I rarely swear out loud ( _swearing is not the hallmark of a gentleman, Peter_ , has always been Aunt May’s motto. Well, one of them. One I’d taken to heart at a young age). I try to lever myself upright and sort of manage . . . though the agony tsunamis over me and nearly makes the world go black again.

 

Then I try to stand up, and. . . .

 

I’m unconscious before I collapse back to the filthy roof.

 

#

 

When I come to again, I’m . . . moving.

 

Everything is upside-down—judging by all the blood rushing to my brain—and moving relatively quickly. Every so often there's a jarring jolt of impact that makes me grunt or groan as the pain, which had dulled to a simmer while I was unconscious, roars back up to a boil.

 

 The air around me is dark, so it’s still night—or night again. Who knows how long I’ve been out of commission?

 

I close my eyes on the vertiginous world until I can collect myself and figure out what in the heavenly header is going on.

 

“. . . _than y’all! Like this, y’all! Like that, y’all! Feel the grooo-oove . . . I feel it, I feel it, now! Make a little love, now—ooh! Ahh! Ooh-ooh-ahh! This party’s at the funhouse!_ _This party’s at the_ —fuck my fine _ass_!” A gravelly, low, familiar voice complains, but good-naturedly. A large hand that I hadn’t even noticed was on my behind, left side, shifts a little . . . becomes almost a sustained stroke. “You’re lucky your booty is so transcendent, Spiderbabe, and that I’m love’s bitch, because the Avengers' Tower is _not_ my favorite place in the city. Nope! That’d be the _Taco Bueno!_ on 8 th and Second. Best damn soft shells since Guadala—”

 

“Ungh . . . Deadpool. . . ?”

 

The movement stops and I force my thousand-pound eyelids open again—wider, this time. I can see, just at the limits of my vision, muscular, red-clad thighs leading up to an equally-muscular, red-clad butt.

 

“You’re awake?” the gravelly voice asks, going an octave higher in surprise and hope. “Oh, Baby Boy, you’ve just made Daddy-pool a ridiculously happy significant other!”

 

The hand on my butt strokes more possessively than ever and I groan, closing my eyes as Deadpool—who, it appears, has me slung over his shoulder like a duffel bag full of dirty laundry—starts running and jumping again. Across rooftops, from the look. I close my eyes yet again, resolving not to take another peek until he stops moving once more. Now I see why so many of the people I've rescued and swung around town had been freaked out by being up so high and having that be utterly out of their control.

 

 _Put me down!_ I want to scream, but I’m really in no position to make demands. I settle for groaning again and asking as calmly as I can: “Where’re you taking me, DP?”

 

“Hush, now, Spidey. Ol’ Papa Wade’s takin’ you somewhere—well, yeah, I _guess_ it’s safe. If I can’t trust Green Jeans, then I guess I can’t trust _no one_ in this city. Aside from _you_ , that is.” There’s a gentle, but firm pressure to my behind on the damaged left side, complete with a cartoonish smacking sound.

 

I think . . . I think Deadpool just _kissed my ass_. . . .

 

“Green Jeans. . . ?” I moan as Deadpool jumps and falls . . . _far_. Then lands with another jarring thud that’s the worst yet. I actually do black-out again, for a few seconds. And when next I open my eyes, Deadpool’s carrying me past a familiar set of blue-tinted glass doors, into a lobby I’ve been to several times before, for _Bugle_ business. “DP . . . I can’t—this isn’t the time to unravel one of your tangents, buddy. I need to . . . to. . . .”

 

“You need _medical attention_ , baby. _That’s_ what you need,” Deadpool says in a strangely somber voice that brooks no argument. At least not from me. Not in the shape I’m in. “You’ve got some kinda weird purple goo eatin’ through you like a family of starving weasels through a Sunday picnic. I tried to wipe it off, but that didn’t help much. So I’m takin’ you to someone who can kick some goo-ass.”

 

Sudden panic makes the pain in my left side even worse. “No! I can’t—who’re we—why're we at the Avengers’ Tower!” I try to struggle against Deadpool’s hold on me, but it’s useless. “ _Damnit_ , DP! I have an identity to protect! I can’t be around the Avengers—or anyone else—when I’m this weak! When I can’t defend myself! They'll unmask me! It’s not _safe_!”

 

The hand on my butt strokes again, this time soothingly, as a beep sounds and Deadpool marches us into an elevator. “Don’t worry, Spides. You’re safe as condos, as long as I’m within shouting distance. I’ll protect that fine-ass booty with my life. And the rest of you, too.”

 

“But—”

 

“No buts! Unless it’s yours in a pink lace thong—seriously, though, what do you _do_ to get such a _rockin’_ ass?”

 

Even though I wouldn’t think I have either enough blood or enough mindfulness to blush, I do. Deadpool’s a terrible flirt, but it’s somehow tougher to ignore that when I’m on the verge of having a panic attack and passing out.

 

“Or is your ass just _naturally_ _foine_? Jeez, isn’t that the way? Some of us are born with killer asses. Others have to _work_ for ‘em. If I told you all the hours I spend doing Afro-step-funk to keep this body—heyya, Friday! Couldja let Green Jeans know his bestie's here with a plus-one in need of doctoring?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Wilson. I’ve already alerted Dr. Banner to your arrival,” Tony Stark’s AI says serenely as we’re whisked up eleventy billion stories to the private floors of the Avengers’ Tower. “He’s preparing the Cradle as we speak.”

 

“Friday, you _beautiful_ —hey, why not tell Tony-Baloney I’m here? You finally learned how to keep a secret?”

 

“Mr. Stark is still supervising the clean-up efforts with the Stark Relief Foundation in Central Park, along with Ms. Romanov and Mr. Rogers,” Friday replies, her lilting, lovely voice somehow soothing and calming. Like a mom, or a really nice babysitter.

 

“Fuck,” Deadpool is murmuring wonderingly. “Sounds like I missed a helluva donnybrook!” Snorting, he pats my butt reassuringly. Or he means it to be reassuring. “But don’t worry, baby. I’ll be here for the next one, having your back. And your front. Hmm, hey, Friday, one more thing: Don’t tell Mr. Type-A that me and Spidey are here, just yet, okay? Let’s just keep it between us and Dr. Rage Monster.”

 

“Mr. Stark left orders that he was not to be disturbed until he returned to the Tower, unless the situation was, and I quote, ‘Armageddon plus Mets take a Subway Series.’” Friday pauses, and if an AI can be amused, then she certainly is. “Mr. Stark will, in all likelihood, not return before morning.”

 

“I’ll be dead by morning,” slips from my numb lips. The world is spinning worse than ever and starting to grey out again, with black nibbling at the edges. The pain feels like it’s getting close to my bones. To my _heart_. If the necro-slime really _has_ made its way that far inward. . . .

 

“No, you won’t, Baby Boy. Banner’ll take good care of you,” Deadpool says softly. “He owes me. Hell, after all the good you’ve done, he owes _you_ , too. All the Avengers and the _world_ owe you. Me, included.” The elevator dings and stops so smoothly, I barely feel it. Deadpool steps out and before I can respond to what he said, I can hear Bruce Banner’s kind, concerned voice from a slight distance.

 

“You’re safe, sweetheart, don’t worry,” Deadpool murmurs, switching his hold of me dizzyingly, agonizingly, so that he’s carrying me bridal-style. His face—which I’ve only ever seen once, but which is nonetheless expressive behind his mask—is set in a grim expression. “My word of honor on that. Don’t you know I _love_ you and I’ll _always_ keep you safe?”

 

“DP—” I start to wheeze as the pain of the position-shift sweeps me under and my heart begins to palpitate.

 

Then a black curtain is drawn across the world.

 

#

 

That first time, he got closer than most would’ve, before my Spidey-sense began to prickle, let alone tingle.

 

“OH. EM. GEE!” a voice behind me squealed, gravelly, but in a falsetto, too. It blocked out the sound of distant sirens to the east and startled the _bejeezus_ out of me . . . set me even more on edge. “It’s _you_!”

 

I spun around, fingers just barely depressing my web shooters. The masked man—big, buff, and seemingly weak at the knees—had a greasy paper bag in one large hand and the other was extending an index finger toward me in a shaky-armed point. Even through his mask, I could tell he was gaping at me.

 

“Uh,” I said, frowning and taking a step back. “Hi.”

 

“ _HI_! I’ve only wanted to meet you since _FOREVER_!” Another squeal and some ecstatic bouncing from the big guy. I instantly realized who he was, he was so famous. _Infamous_. But as long as I hadn’t caught him— _Deadpool,_ Merc with a mouth . . . the soldier of fortune who occasionally fought on the side of the angels—killing on my turf, I’d never had reason to go after him. From the looks of things, tonight wasn’t about to give me that reason. “I mean—I’ve hoped and prayed and wished and wanted and _here you are_! On the same rooftop as li’l ol’ _me_! Eeeee!”

 

Deadpool began to fan himself with his free hand. “It is just an _honor_ to meet you at last, Spider-Man—long-time fan, here! Not to gush all over you or swoon, but—” he stopped fanning himself and went limp, dropping to the rooftop bonelessly, with a soft sigh.

 

“You make my little heart go pitty-pat,” he whispered to the sky, his greasy paper bag still clutched firmly in his hand. Then he was bolting upright, obviously grinning under his tell-tale mask. He held up the bag and I pointed my hand at him, ready to web him either silent or still. “Want some tacos? Soft shell—steak _and_ chicken! From _Taco Bueno!_ ”

 

“Um. No, thanks,” I said, backing toward the edge of the roof. Deadpool watched me, silent and still at last, as if observing me carefully and keenly. I reluctantly turned away to shoot a line to a distant building, as I could once more hear those sirens in the distance, singing my song. There was no time to bandy words with a merc . . . even if he _was_ a fan. “Business calls. Have a nice night, Deadpool.”

 

“ _EEEEEE! HE KNOWS WHO I AM!!!_ ” Deadpool’s tiny, starstruck squee made me blush.

 

As I webbed away, a deep, gravelly yell split the night, nearly startling the stickiness out of my hands:

 

“Oh, my _GOD_! DAT ASS, THO!”

 

#

 

After that first meeting, there were _plenty_ of others.

 

Deadpool began showing up at random moments—when I was fighting, when I was travelling, when I was simply catching my breath—and sometimes he had tacos. Usually he didn’t, and on these occasions, he apologized for letting his appetite get the best of him before he found me.

 

He’d follow me around for most of the night, only barely keeping up, and only because I _let_ him, even though I rarely acknowledged him, let alone talked to him. He seemed not to mind, however. He had some kind of weird fascination with the Spider-Man that was . . . daunting and a little off-putting.

 

I tried to keep a professional distance, only addressing him when in the midst of a fight of some sort. (Oddly enough, we fought well together. Had each other’s backs the moment bad stuff went down. And Deadpool was always a professional in a fight, if a mouthy, irreverent one.)

 

He even began to—rarely—work with the Avengers, too. Usually only when the world was at stake. Even then, he mostly stuck by me. Notably, too, because after a while, Mr. Stark began calling him my “other half” and Thor started calling Deadpool and I “shield-mates.”

 

Widow and Hawkeye just flat-out called him my boyfriend.

 

It didn’t help that Deadpool’s flirting and appreciation of certain of my . . . physical attributes . . . was often loud and vociferous. He’d even given a seven-minute interview after the Abish-Mal Incident to a Channel 7 Eyewitness News reporter about how _luscious_ my posterior was (his word). There were hand-gestures, hip gyrations, and everything.

 

About a year after our first meeting, Deadpool started asking me to call him ‘Wade.’ Or ‘Big Pimpin’.

 

“No, DP. I’m not calling you by your civilian name and I’m _certainly_ not calling you ‘Big Pimpin’,” I’d said. I’d only reluctantly begun allowing myself to call him “DP” just to expedite matters in an emergency situation. And even _that_ had taken a while to feel comfortable in my mouth.

 

“Aww, don’t be like that, Snookums!” Deadpool had pouted—again, his every expression was insanely readable despite the mask . . . at least to me—and crooked his hands in a heart-shape in front of the left side of his chest, pushing it back and forth toward me. “You can call me ‘Wade’ and I can call you . . . whatever your actual name is! It’ll be fun! All the other superhero couples’ll be _so_ jelly! Cap and the Winter Hottie’ll _shit_ , we’ll make such a cuter couple than them!”

 

“Wait— _what_? No, just . . . never mind. We’re _not_ a couple, Deadpool.”

 

“Oh, p’shaw,” he dismissed, waving his right hand, his left settling over his heart. “You’re still in the closet. I get that. But this little pansexual palomino won’t wait around for you _forever_ , you know. It’s not like I’m gonna _live_ forev—okay, maybe I’ve got some time to kill. . . .”

 

I turned my back on Deadpool. That was something it’d always been alarmingly easy to do, despite the fact that it meant he could easily stick a katana in it. But he hadn’t made my Spidey-sense tingle for the better part of a year, at that point. So, I sighed for at least fifty-seven different reasons and prepared to web away. It’d been a slow night, and dawn was on its way. I still had to finish a paper for freshman English, on a book that I was still reading as of six-thirty p.m. the night before.

 

“Good day, Deadpool,” I said, sighing again as I shot my web out toward false dawn.

 

“Aww, _Spidey_! Don’t you know I wanna have your babies? Can you imagine? Cute little tykes with your ass and my blood-lust?”

 

I shuddered, and swung away to the sounds of his cackling laughter.

 

#

 

And that’s how it was, pretty much. Straight through the rest of freshman year of college, and well into sophomore.

 

I tried and managed to keep my distance, in spite of his flirting, his hugs, his occasional earnestness. In spite of the fact that as time went on, I not only grew used to him, but grew to like him. To even worry about him when he wasn’t around—sometimes for weeks at a time, for what I assume were jobs.

 

Then, late one evening, at the beginning of junior year, I was down in DUMBO, patrolling, changing up my game, and expanding my territory—I refused to acknowledge to myself that I was half-assedly searching for Deadpool, whom I hadn’t seen in nearly two months. The longest I’d gone without seeing him since he'd barreled into my life a year and a half prior—when my Spidey-sense began to not just tingle, but to _burn_.

 

Sure enough, a few seconds later, after I was already swinging west, I heard the sounds of screams and automatic weapons fire.

 

By the time I got to the source of the sounds—a nondescript warehouse—two late model, black SUVs were peeling rubber in two different directions. There were dead bodies, at least seven of them, scattered on the street. And one of them was redder than the others, accented in black. White eyes stared sightlessly up at the night sky, and—

 

“Fuck! _Fuck_!” I swung down into the street, not even checking to see if it was all clear, and ran to Deadpool, dropping to my knees at his side and pulling his torso into my lap. It was riddled with bullets and, it was clear, there’d been a few rounds put in his skull, as well. The mask was a mess of smoking holes, blood, and grey matter. “Oh, fuck, oh, DP. . . .” I moaned, suddenly rocking the body in my lap and unable to stop. It felt like my mind—my _heart_ was tearing itself to pieces. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t.

 

I reached up to cup Deadpool’s cheek in my shaking hand, unbidden tears soaking my mask as I realized his was in the way. I quickly pushed it up and off, barely noticing the rugged, scarred, bloody face, cratered and uneven, with chapped lips and a hairless pate. His eyes were closed and despite the holes in his mask—two in the front, three in the back, and the ones in the front had been between his eyes and in his temple, respectively—there didn’t appear to be any in his face, itself.

 

It was then that I remembered: Deadpool possessed advanced healing abilities.

 

Maybe even advanced enough to shrug off five bullets to the head?

 

I’d have to wait and see, I supposed.

 

So I pulled off my right glove and cupped Deadpool’s cheek in my hand, stroking his cool, damaged skin with my thumb. All I could do was hope against hope that this silly, crazy, wise-cracking _idiot_ would take a breath and open his eyes.

 

It occurred to me that I didn’t even know what color those eyes _were_.

 

“Please wake up, DP . . . _Wade_ ,” I whispered, pushing my own mask up enough to expose the lower half of my face, my skin sweaty, but cooled by the chilly autumn air. “I—I’ll do anything . . . I’ll go out for tacos with you and let you touch my butt, just . . . _wake up_.”

 

And, without permission from my brain, or what passed for my common sense, I leaned down and kissed Deadpool’s forehead gently, lingering for a moment before I kissed the tip of his nose, his cheeks, and finally his lips. They were softer than they looked.

 

Just before I would have pulled away, Deadpool gasped in a sudden breath, his lips parting underneath mine, air whistling in through his nose. I quickly sat back, blushing and pulling down my mask. Deadpool was blinking up at me dazedly, almost smiling as he reached up to cup _my_ face in his tremoring hand. His eyes were a rich, dark sable, unlike my own ordinary light brown, and they sparkled in seas of reddened sclera.

 

“Did you just . . . did you just _Sleeping Beauty_ me, Baby Boy?” he husked, his voice mostly gone, mostly forced air. I turned so red, he could probably see it even through my mask.

 

“I—I—” I stammered, busying myself with pulling my glove back on. Just then, Deadpool’s hand flew from my face, to his own.

 

“ _Shit_!” he exclaimed in obvious dismay. He groaned as he sat up, trying to look around. “Where’s my mask? Where—”

 

I reached behind him and picked up the mask, holding it out. He took it slowly, looking first at it, then at me. Then away, as he pulled it on, wincing, and muttering about the holes in it.

 

“Thanks, Spidey,” he said gruffly, still barely vocal. I shrugged uncomfortably.

 

“All I did was keep you company till you, uh, woke up,” I muttered, and Deadpool laughed, broken and bitter.

 

“More than anyone else’s ever done, I can assure you. And as a reward, you got to see the real shit-show underneath this elegant mask.” Deadpool sighed and started to lever himself up and out of my lap. I was surprised he let me help him upright, but he did. And when we were both on our feet, he stretched the kinks out of his back noisily. “For that, I’m sorry, kiddo.”

 

I bit my lip and rocked back on my heels. Then forward on my toes. “Nothing to be sorry for, DP. I’ve seen worse.”

 

“Somehow I doubt that.” Deadpool’s laugh, though still bitter, was more of a laugh than the last one, and less of a breathless chuff. He bent to pick up one of his fallen pistols with a grunt. “Anyways, I’ll take you for enchiladas, some time. My treat. Assuming you ever get your appetite back from—” Deadpool waved vaguely at his masked face. Then he turned to hobble away. South.

 

“Wait, DP!” I caught up with him easily and he turned to look at me warily, it was clear. “Look, what say we clean up the rest of this mess, huh? One of those SUVs went north. The other went west. I’ll take one and you take the other, okay?”

 

“Spidey—” Deadpool sounded demoralized and depressed. “Listen, kid. . . .”

 

“We can _do_ this, Wade,” I said firmly. “We _have_ to. Gotta at least _try_. If we can make the world, even just our small corner of it, a little safer, we have to do _all we can_.”

 

Deadpool stared at me for a few seconds before squaring his shoulders and finally nodding. He checked his semi-automatic pistol for rounds, then glanced off to the west.

 

“Time to make the chimi-fucking-changas,” he muttered, already striding off down the street, rolling his shoulders.

 

I stared after him for a few moments, my heart filling like a sail in a strong wind, before webbing off to the north, grinning-grinning-grinning behind my still-wet mask.

 

#

 

The first thing I become aware of is a gloved hand holding mine and a bed that’s softer than my creaky futon has any right to be. A quiet, gravelly voice sings absently, and almost too softly for me to make out the words. But I can hear a page turning, like someone’s reading a magazine. Otherwise my surroundings are comfortably quiet.

 

“. . . _don’t leave me hangin’ on, like a yo-yo_. . . .” the voice warbles, not hitting the right note even once. I feel my mouth curve up at the corners and my mask—which I never sleep in—makes my cheeks itch. _Why am I wearing my mask? And why is the rest of me . . ._ naked _?_

 

It all comes back to me in a rush. The Caryoun. Getting wounded. Being . . . rescued.

 

The Avengers’ Tower.

 

And Dr. Banner’s worried expression as he hurried toward me and Wade. . . .

 

Wade.

 

Cue my heart beating faster and my mind being swamped with the memory of cool, soft, scarred lips on my own. The look of gratitude and some other emotion in dark, gentle eyes that I could read all too easily. That other emotion hadn’t been one I’d wanted to recognize at the time, but now, months later, it’s all I can think about. All I can theorize about and try to reason away . . . though a part of me that’s anything _but_ reasonable is trying to do quite the opposite.

 

Deadpool is a flirt. Everyone knows that. I’d once seen him flirt with a mannequin in the middle of a fight in Woolworth’s, late one night. He flirts with me because I'm _there_. Not because of any real feelings he might have, right?

 

Right?

 

But then I remember that look in his eyes as he’d gazed up at me, still barely conscious, and asked if I’d “Sleeping Beauty’d” him.

 

Wade had looked at me like I’d _redeemed_ him. Like I was his _savior_.

 

But _he’d_ been the one to save _me_ , hadn’t he? Saved me from a slow, agonizing death at the hands of freaking necro-slime. Why would he _do_ that? After all, his gift was _death_ . . . and flirting and team-work aside, what was my measly life to him?

 

 _Don’t you know I_ love _you and I’ll_ always _keep you safe_? he’d asked before I passed out, his voice awkward and cracking under strain. Under the weight of his promise.

 

But from the quiescence of my Spidey-sense, he had done just that. For the first time in a long time, someone is taking care of _me_. Watching over _me_. Protecting _me_.

 

 _I’m going to be_ okay, I suddenly realize. We’re _going to be okay. We have a lot to talk about—a_ lot _—namely: how the heck long has Wade been_ in love with me, _how the heck long have I_ returned _his feelings, and at exactly what point in a relationship do two superheroes unmask for each other?_

 

  _It's a lot to get past and through, but . . . it’ll be worth it._

 

 _Because_ Wade _is worth it._

 

For now, there’s a lingering pain in my left side, but it’s a _healing_ pain, if any pain could be said to be that. My mask still itches. My head aches, but not a lot, and my mouth is really dry. I’d kill for some water, but I’m way sleepier than I am thirsty, so I don’t make an effort to so much as crack my eyelids—

 

“. . . _when I hit that high_. . . !”

 

—there’s no need to. Because I _know_ that for now, I’m safe right where I am.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> My freshman SpideyPool effort. How was it?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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